is it my mind and then words,
words and then my mind,
swirling back and forth like some sort of
soup,
(the kind with letters)
rocking my body
rolling it on the mattress
kneading it like some sort of
bread
(the kind with air pockets)
I’m a little flimsy,
attacking sporadically
without warning like some sort of
curry
(the kind with boiled potatoes)
if you leave me alone for too long
my senses war with themselves
molding and stinking like some sort of
vegetable
(the kind like spinach left in the bottom drawer)
it’s a tough buy for sure,
you could go with a safer option
something predictable like some sort of
granola bar
(the kind with little chocolate chips and dehydrated marshmallows)
but when you find me,
you’ll be warm in the most unexpected way
feelings like the kind around
waffles
(the kind you make on a Sunday morning in the middle of an embrace, spilling them all over the counter, filling every pocket with something different; kissing sticky fingers and untangling ratted hair—the best kind that takes a while to eat but fills you right to the top)
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